With their first LP for Odd Future's label on the way, the Cali punks discuss their raging L.A. headquarters and how their tour van was used in an armed robbery.

California hardcore group Trash Talk have only subtly changed their template over the past seven years, but the band's profile has steadily risen, spiking last year with the excellent nine-minute AwakeEP for True Panther Sounds. That release helped introduce the quartet to new audiences, a trend that's likely to continue with their next full-length, 119, to be released via their friends Odd Future's label on October 9; they're the first act signed to the Sony subsidiary separate of the OF collective itself.

Recorded to tape at a studio in L.A., where the Sacramento band relocated last year, 119 is "more expanded" compared to Awake, though "it's still definitely a hardcore record," according to drummer Sam Bosson. The band's staunchly no-frills approach is refreshing given the recent trend among hardcore acts to stretch out in the face of handsome record deals. We talked with frontman Lee Spielman, bassist Spencer Pollard, and Bosson about Trash Talk's warehouse headquarters, the organic origins of their Odd Future pairing, and the (nonexistent) impact of their ever-expanding fan base on 119.

"It's fucking boring to see bands stand still and rock back and forth and expect it to be fucking entertaining."

Pitchfork: How did you first meet Odd Future?

Lee Spielman: We met them at SXSW in 2011. [Odd Future] came to our show that morning and saw what we were doing, and then we went to their show that afternoon. Hodgy jumped off the roof of the building and I was like, "What the fuck is going on?" It was cool because it's rap, but it has the same vibe and aesthetic as a hardcore punk show. We're like-minded people. I think a lot of artists don't really give 100% live-- it's fucking boring to see bands stand still and rock back and forth and expect it to be fucking entertaining and shit.

And we're all kind of in the same place as far as how we like to operate, too. Trash Talk Collective is something we built on our own; we take pride in that. And Odd Future Records is something they built on their own, and they take pride in it, too.

Watch Odd Future perform with Trash Talk at a recent Brooklyn show:

Pitchfork: Do those guys actually run Odd Future Records from start to finish? There's major label distribution and backing from Sony.

LS: Everything that's done with Odd Future Records and Trash Talk Collective comes through Odd Future Records and Trash Talk Collective. The only people that make decisions are us and them. There is no one saying, "We need you to write a Top 40 single," or fucking make a bedazzled T-shirt. If you have an idea and you want to do it, you get it done and execute it. There is no outside opinion on what people should do, at all. If Trash Talk signed to some other fucking label, we wouldn't be getting told what to do, but they would be hinting at what they thought we should do. But with this, you make your own lane.

Spencer Pollard: 119 is our address in Los Angeles. It's the warehouse space we turned into a creation space. We live there, wrote our record there, hang out there.

LS: It's Trash Talk Collective's headquarters. When we were on a tour a year and a half ago, we decided we all wanted to live together and build a space where we could be creative. So we rented a warehouse downtown and built a recording studio-- we built lofts and a mini ramp. It's a place where us and all our friends can come together and do cool shit, from making zines to painting the walls to skateboarding to writing music. We built our own little dream club house. We have parties all the time, fucking people come and rage.

"People are getting shot at on the fucking street corner two blocks away from our warehouse. It's a fucked up world, and now that shit's in our backyard."

Pitchfork: What kind of lyrical themes are you dealing with?

SP: There's a song that deals with police brutality and injustices associated with that. Our neighborhood has definitely been a big influence on the record-- seeing the street-level shit that's going on around us.

LS: Our area is pretty fucked up. It's south of downtown, kind of by USC. I could skate 10 minutes to the ghetto. Or I could skate 10 minutes to the Staples Center.

Pitchfork: What's been going on there that you've been writing about?

SP: There's like a ghetto burn-out everyday, at least one or two, usually three or four. People are getting shot at on the fucking street corner, two blocks away. Kids are fighting, smoking weed in the fucking alley, at, like, age 11. It's a fucked up world, and that's kind of what we've been writing about the whole time. But now that shit's in our backyard.

LS: There's streets by where we live where there's just a fucking mini tent city, where people just lay on the floor and do nothing. There's people diving in our dumpsters and fighting over our cans every day. A bunch of bullshit.

Pitchfork: Were there any particular events that pushed you to write about this?

LS: The ghetto hangs over our heads every day. You'll be sleeping at the warehouse alone and just hear gunshots; you kinda don't want to go out. Creepy people come up to our apartment, ask sketchy shit, people with fucking face tattoos. Someone got shot in the head a few weeks ago like two blocks away from the house. It was sad; the whole sidewalk was covered in candles. It was an eye-opener to the fact that where we live is pretty fucking sketchy.

But at the warehouse, there's a bunch of units. It's a cool artist-type compound. Our neighbor does pottery, another guy does lights. A guy a few houses down is an architect. We look after each other. If the warehouse was just in the middle of fucking nowhere and I didn't have my pottery homie next door to hang with, it might be sketchier.

Pitchfork: Have you personally had any trouble in the neighborhood in terms of crime or violence?

LS: The day we went to go record 119, we walked out to load our gear into our van, and our van was just gone. It got stolen from the front of our house. The entire time we were recording, we were trying to catch rides from friends and figure out how to get to the studio. And then, on the day we finished our record, the detective called to say they found the van. We got it back and the ignition was popped out, the locks were fucked up, the seats were gone. The police told us it was used in a robbery. I think they went to Mexico. They did a lot of dirt down there, while we were recording our album. They were out doing armed robberies and channeling us.

SP: And we were channeling them.

LS: You know how fucking crazy that is? We live in that van half the year. So much tight shit has happened in that van. So many blunts have been smoked. So much hanging out. So many jokes. Fun shit. I feel like vans are a chapter of our band. And a chapter of our book was torn out when they stole our van. And then it got sewn back in when they gave it back. It's missing a few pages, like seats and ignition.

Pitchfork: Has the increased exposure affected how you operate as a band?

SP: I don't know if it's really a factor in anything. We're just a band doing what we know how to do: we play music, go on tour, write records. That's all we know. We are still pretty self-contained. We still tour in a fucking 15-passenger van. We're still fucking sitting on floors eating Chippy or fast food every night. Nothing's really changed except for the people we're playing in front of. And that's cool. We're a hardcore band, and if you're gonna come out and see us, that's tight. If you're a normal dude coming to see us, that's even tighter.

Pitchfork: Any other thoughts you'd like to share about the record?

SP: If you don't fuck with it, then you're probably trippin'.

LS: It's the 2012 Trash Talk yearbook!

SP: Listen to it high. Listen to it on acid.

LS: Listen to it however. Just fucking turn it up as high as you can. Make your neighbors pissed. Throw your TV out the window.

SP: Play it for your parents. Play it for your children. Play it for your classmates.